


two by five

by princessofmind



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6043378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She looked like a nymph born from the stars, her skin white as cream and her eyes dark and mysterious, the long, elegant line of her neck framed by the high mesh collar of the bodice. “Mama,” he breathes as she paints burgundy gloss across her lips, “you’re beautiful.”.</p><hr/><p>
  <i>A collection of short stories relating to the relationship of Mutsuki Tooru and Urie Kuki (most are stand alone, but some may appear in a series and will be indicated as such).</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ruins at dusk

After being seen to and cleared by the medical team, the only thing the remaining quinx could do was return to the chateau. There was a reluctance between them, evident in Saiko’s dragging steps and the way Mutsuki’s eyes were firmly on the ground the entire way home. Urie walked a little ahead of them, hands crammed in his pockets as he ground his teeth and tried to ignore the gritty feeling of his blood-soaked clothes against his skin.

It wasn’t his blood. Maybe if it was, things would have been different.

The chateau is silent when Urie opens the door, and the three hesitate in unison at the door, not making any move to enter what was, for all intents and purposes, a place not any different from where they’d departed from earlier that day.

“We’re being ridiculous,” Urie says, more heat in his words than he really intends, but it at least spurs the others into motion. They toe off their shoes in exchange for slippers, and Saiko flees upstairs, presumably to lock herself in her room. That much, at least, hasn’t changed, but the ringing silence presses against his ears uncomfortably to the point where he wants to scream.

“I’m going to shower and change,” Mutsuki murmurs, his voice surprisingly even. “You should probably do the same.”

What would ordinarily draw a cutting remark only gets a grunt in response, and they part ways at the top of the stairs, going to their respective rooms and bathrooms. Their personal bathrooms are small, so small as to be funny, but it’s no surprise that they’d rather squeeze into the tiny shower stalls in private over going down to the larger communal showers attached to the training room.

Urie lets himself linger, the water starting hot enough to boil the skin from his back but fading quickly to needles of ice. It registers on some distant level, but it can’t really penetrate the haze. His head feels stuffed with cotton, like it’s been scooped out and replaced with meaningless fluff. The sting in his eyes never really went away, and everything aches in a way that probably means he’s dehydrated, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s a quinx, after all; something like that won’t actually hurt him more than being a nuisance.

Toweling his hair off and dressing in loose clothing, Urie stands in the middle of his room, looking at the covered canvases and his neatly made bed. Usually, the lack of material items is comforting, makes him feel like his head is organized and everything is in it’s place. But tonight, the emptiness rankles, and his skin is crawling, covered in goosebumps, so he flees the usual comfort of his personal sanctuary in search of the only other member of their team who might still be out where he could find them.

The door to Haise’s office is open; it’s the only office in the chateau, located at the end of the hall past the bedrooms, and usually they don’t venture inside unless invited. It’s all dark wood and clutter, books shelved haphazardly and papers stacked all over the desk without any rhyme or reason. The heavy curtains that usually block the window from view have been thrown open, letting moonlight pour into the otherwise dark room, giving it an almost ghastly appearance.

Mutsuki is standing behind the desk, dressed similarly to Urie, his fingers loosely holding a stapled pack of papers, but he isn’t looking at them. His gaze is out the window instead, and there’s a faint tremor in the sheaves of white, the only thing hinting that things might not be as serene as they appear. Urie doesn’t speak to announce his presence, but it’s obvious that the other senses him, his lips pressing into such a tight line that his skin is tinged white.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” Mutsuki asks, resigned and so unspeakably, soul-deep sad that it makes Urie ache.

For a moment, he says nothing, the unanswered question hanging between them as heavy as lead. The moonlight casts shadows on Mutsuki’s face, making him appear fractured, ethereal, not quite a person but not a ghoul either. Just something...more, not of this place. Finally, he gives the answer they both already know, his voice low and rough sounding, like there’s stones stuck in his throat.

“No.”

The single word seems to crystallize whatever Mutsuki is feeling, because his grip on the papers turns savage, fingers digging so hard that it rips under his bitten nails, expression twisting into a mixture of grief and rage.

“Is it not enough that Shirazu is dead?” he asks hotly, the anger in his voice choked by the tears that are steadily tracking down his cheeks. “Is it not enough that we lost one of our teammates, that we can never get him back, but now Sasaki-”

The papers are thrown against the nearest bookshelf, knocking a volume free to land on the floor with a surprisingly dull sound. Mutsuki looks fit to crawl out of his own skin, shaking so badly that it would be obvious to anyone, not just Urie’s trained eye. It’s too much, all of it is too much, and Urie has so much tumult in his heart that he feels blank, hollowed out and empty like a yawning cavern. But Mutsuki is boiling with it, frothing over and unable to try and pull it back in, like it would kill him to do so.

Moving around the desk that separates them, Urie is fully expecting the uncoordinated strike that lands against his chin, but in his state, it’s not enough to even snap his head back. “Stop,” he sighs, sounding just as tired as he feels. “I know.”

His tentative heart, the one that had tried so hard to keep people out, feels bloody and broken and bruised to the point where it doesn’t even resemble what it once was. But there’s one thing he remembers, and that’s how deeply and viscerally his soul was soothed by Mutsuki’s arms around him, the softness of his embrace, the smell of his skin and hair, the cadence of his voice. The other probably has more experience with it, has held people and cared for people in the past, and Urie is so sure that he’s going to botch it...

The fight leaves Mutsuki, the rage flickering and dying into nothing but a deep well of sadness, and with a wrenching sob that sounds like it was pulled from his soul with hooks, he goes limp against his chest, fingers clenching and unclenching in the fabric of the back of his shirt as he shakes and trembles and yells. The sounds are animalistic, dripping down Urie’s chest like poison, but it’s like the letting of a wound to get the infection out. As Mutsuki sobs and wails and groans, the shaking in his bones starts to settle, the frantic jittering of his hands and the uncoordinated movements of his eyes fading back to something familiar.

And through it, all Urie can do is try and keep him together, tethering him like an anchor tied to a boat tossing about in a storm. His arms are firm around him, strong, and he doesn’t know if he should touch his hair or stroke his back, so he only remains present and there, holding him until his noises are little more than sniffles, Mutsuki’s throat clearly sore and raw as he rests his head against Urie’s shoulder in exhaustion.

“It’s not fair,” he croaks, his hands still fisted in Urie’s shirt, weak arms holding him as tightly as he can. Urie rests his cheek against Mutsuki’s head, the tickle of his slightly damp hair a strange comfort but one that he is more than happy to take.

“It’s not fair,” Urie agrees, his thumb moving against the small of his back without his notice.

It’s hard to say how long they stay like that, silent in the middle of a room that feels so much like ruins, like something deserted and not _theirs_ , something that shouldn’t even be there any longer. But in the cold light streaming through the windows, their arms are warm, and holding each other up is all that they can do.


	2. lowered lashes

Usually, Urie doesn’t paint people. They hold little interest in him, and there’s only so many colors and variations that a person can have. Skin is always a shade of pink and brown, eyes falling within the range of brown and blue, hair some dark neutral with a sheen of something else. It’s boring, and there are so many more colors in nature, nestled in flowers or stretching from trees, radiating from the sun or reflecting in the water. Mostly, he works in landscapes or abstracts, mixing acrylics on his palette like a rainbow. The more he can squeeze on there, the happier he is.

It’s a contrast from what people expect from him; they think such a serious man would paint in monochrome, maybe hard abstracts with splashes of crimson or maroon. But instead he painstakingly paints petals on flowers, carefully adding pistols to the center of each blossom with his thinnest, most delicate brush.

Now, though, he sits in the living room of the chateau, a pile of papers resting on his knee and a pen in his gloved hand. He should be focusing on the reports in front of him, but his gaze instead is captured by the man sitting in the armchair across from him.

Mutsuki has a book in his hands, a battered paperback that looks like it’s been read countless times before finding it’s way into his hands. His eyepatch is absent, since reading with it on for too long gives him a headache, but it’s hard to see his eyes through his lowered lashes. Mutsuki has such delicate features, cast in soft shadows by the sunlight streaming through the curtains and painted gold. 

With the way his head is tilted, his hair hangs away from his face on the right side, making him think of drapes in deep emerald hanging in a castle, prized for it’s rich color and the fine texture of the woven strands. His dusky skin has an almost caramel tint from the light, his small nose wrinkled in response to whatever it is he’s reading, lips in a soft, relaxed line that only twitches up or down every so often.

Somehow he hasn’t noticed that he’s being watched, and the only sound in the room is their breathing and the rustle of pages as they turn. It makes his heart jump in the strangest way to see those fingers gripping the yellowed pages, lightly at the top corner as if afraid to damage them. Almost like a lover’s touch in how gentle it is, how careful, but he knows that those fingers are calloused, can hold steel and draw blood.

He thinks of spilling violets over the collarbones he can see peeking out of Mutsuki’s loose-fitting shirt, the petals reaching up to caress the gentle line of his jaw and his chin, casting shadows over his throat and adam’s apple. He images leaves spilling dappled sunlight onto his cheeks, the pattern only disturbed by the sharp flutters of his eyelashes and the curve of his smile. He imagines the duality of red and black against white and soft green.

He doesn’t think he’s ever mixed the color of his skin before in his life.

Would he even be able to capture the peacefulness in his expression, the way his entire being is _soft_ right now, utterly relaxed and comfortable in his presence as he reads? Could he hope to convey even a fraction of the fire in his eyes when he fights, the determination and banked fear that he keeps at bay with the sheer power of his will? Is he experienced enough to try and paint the smile on his lips when Saiko teases him, or when he helps Sasaki with cooking, or would it be insulting to even try?

Those lashes lift when he stands, and Mutsuki lets his hand rest on the page of his book that he’s currently reading, like Urie rising demands more of his attention than the story currently turning in his mind.

“Are you finished?” he asks, the words fluttering like butterfly wings to his ears, and the sound looks periwinkle, like the gleam of a clear sky against snow.

“Near enough,” Urie grunts, tucking his papers under his arm. “I’m going to go paint.”

It’s rare that he shares anything like this, verbalizing his intent or even telling people where he’s going, and Mutsuki blinks a couple times, letting the words register before he smiles. “Feeling inspired?”

A flash of white against pink lips, eyes crinkled and shining with light like stars. An entire galaxy could fit there, swirling with blues and purples so black they blend together yet somehow stand out separately.

“Yeah. I am.”


	3. an empty room full of sound

_He remembers walking past the dress every day on the way to and from school, his mother’s long, pianist fingers clutched tight in his childish, chubby ones. In the morning, every crystal and yard of chiffon glistened like precious gems, silver and purple hues tinting navy blue the color of the night sky. In the evenings, it seemed to fade into the darkness, the lights of the store already turned off and the sign flipped to “closed”, but as he walked by the crystals would catch the light, glinting mysteriously almost like they were winking, giggling from their hiding place in the black._

_It wasn’t something he fantasized about wearing (he was a boy, and boys weren’t supposed to wear dresses, were they?), but he couldn’t escape his fascination, lingering long enough sometimes to make his mother laugh and tug him gently away, reminding him that they had school to get to or dinner to eat._

_One day when they walked by, the dress was gone; bought, probably, for the upcoming gala. When he got to school, he sat in the bathroom and cried, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes before they could properly fall. It was foolish, after all; what did it matter that the dress was gone?_

_But he saw it again, wrapped around his mother’s slight frame, bobby pins in her mouth as she sat at the vanity in her bedroom, pulling black curls into a pile at the nape of her neck that looked messy but he knew was a painstakingly precise science._

_She looked like a nymph born from the stars, her skin white as cream and her eyes dark and mysterious, the long, elegant line of her neck framed by the high mesh collar of the bodice. “Mama,” he breathes as she paints burgundy gloss across her lips, “you’re beautiful.”_

_Laughing, soft and pleased, she leans down to straighten his little bow-tie, a navy that he now realizes matches her dress. “You don’t look half bad yourself, little one. I’m beginning to think you’re going to be quite the heartbreaker when you’re grown up.”_

_He doesn’t know what a heartbreaker is, but he knows it’s supposed to be a compliment, so he grins, not ashamed of his missing front teeth. The door to her room opens, his father letting his hand rest on the knob as if to tell both of them he has no plans to linger. The way his dark eyes sweep over his mother’s form seems clinical, almost detached, but there’s something soft there that makes her flush with pleasure when he gives her an approving nod._

_“I’m still not sure if Kuki should be coming,” he says, looking at the small boy. “I don’t doubt he’ll behave himself, but it’s going to be terribly boring.”_

_“He’ll be fine,” his mother says, waving the words away. “Besides, it’s good for him to get used to this young. I’ll keep an eye on him, and besides, didn’t Iwao say he was bringing Takeomi?”_

_In lieu of an answer, his father just grunts and leaves her to finish getting ready, the door closing behind them with a soft click._

**Why didn’t he like Takeomi? Even as children, there was something wrong there, like he was just waiting for something to slide out of place with a bitterness clinging to his heart.**

_It was late, far past his bedtime, but the gala seemed to only just be starting, and he was so tired. His mother was sitting in one of the chairs lining the wall near the orchestra, his head resting against the rough chiffon of her skirt. Part of him worries about wrinkling it, and he can already tell that the pattern of the fabric is leaving an imprint in his soft skin._

_“It’s okay if you want to sleep,” she says, and her posture is perfect for all that she has an exhausted little boy in her lap. “I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go. You’ve been so good.”_

_A great yawn stretches his jaw until it clicks. Maybe just for a little bit, if she says it’s okay._

**It feels like a bad idea. A bad idea. A bad idea.**

_When he wakes up, it’s to the feeling of the chair under his cheek, not chiffon and satin. It’s hard and unforgiving and his neck hurts. He can’t tell how long he’s been asleep, but there’s no lingering warmth from her body, no sensation of her fingers in his hair, and the imprint of her dress is gone from his cheek._

_Standing up so quickly makes him dizzy, and the orchestra is still playing, but the room is empty. There’s no one there, and it doesn’t occur to him to try and find out where the music is coming from. It sounds disjointed and damaged, like there’s something wrong with the instruments, and it’s getting hard to breathe._

_There’s crystals on the floor, scattered like petals from a flower girl at a western wedding, thrown without care and with loose fingers. It’s almost like a trail from his story books, but the room seems large enough to swallow him up, the chandeliers glinting but not casting enough light to truly illuminate the room. There’s a door at the end of that trail, and his fingers clutch at the hem of his suit jacket as he shuffles the impossibly long distance, looking behind him as if he expects a monster to jump out at any moment._

_A torn fragment of galaxy-colored fabric is caught in the door._

_It smells like antiseptic, like medicine and bleached sheets and fake smiles and crying. The scent burns his nose, makes him feel nauseous, and his hands are shaking as he reaches up, having to stand on his tip-toes to opens the door that’s so large and heavy that it would fit better in a giant’s home, not this place of ordinary people._

_“Mama?” he whispers, voice feeling dry and unused, foreign for how young it sounds. “Mama?”_

_The dress is in a pile in the next room, torn and dirty and holding none of it’s former glory. It’s hard to hear the orchestra from this far away, but it sounds like they’re playing one note, sharp and high and repetitive, in short bursts that sound like the tone of a machine, the squeal of strings making him clasp his hands over his ears._

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep._

**You weren’t there. The hospital scared you, so you weren’t there, and now she’s gone. You didn’t think she would really die, that anything would come of it, and now you’ll never see her again.**

_There’s a hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm and carrying the smell of sweat and steel with it._

_“Dad?”_

_Blood. The hand left a smear of blood on his suit jacket, once so perfect and pristine, the stuff now runs down his back, dripping into his shoes and leaving a puddle where he stands. His chest is so tight he can’t get any air in, and there’s a trail of it on the perfect marble floor, like a body had been dragged past him into the dark depths of the ballroom. The chandeliers don’t glint anymore._

_“Daddy?” his voice is so high with panic that he doesn’t recognize it, and he’s screaming before he even knows what’s happening, is blinded by the sheer fear. “Daddy! **Daddy**!”_

**”We’re so sorry, but your father was killed performing his duty to the CCG. His testament left no indication of any family members you could be sent to live with, so in two days time, someone will come and discuss options with you.”**

**Discuss options. He was a child, being told that his father was dead in the most clinical, uncaring, detached way. What options?**

_Clawing at his throat against the phantom sensation of a hand crushing the air from his lungs, fat tears roll down his cheeks and drip onto his neck, and it feels too much like the blood on his back, making him cry harder._

_He’s alone. He’s so, so alone, and nobody cares about what happens to him. Just another orphaned child, another problem that someone doesn’t want to have to deal with._

**It hurts. It HURTS.**

_”Urie.”_

_Someone is behind him, arms wrapping around his tiny body as a chin tucks over his shoulder. It’s quiet suddenly, the orchestra no longer shrieking in the background, and through the blood and salt of his tears he smells something clean, something warm like sunshine and amber. Somehow, it’s such a familiar, comforting feeling that he goes limp, sobbing pitifully as the person behind him supports his weight easily. Has he ever felt this small before?_

_“It’s okay,” the person murmurs, soft lips brushing against his cheek. “I know it hurts, and it’s okay that it still hurts even now. But you’re not alone anymore, you know? We all love you.”_

_The hum of electronics in the air, salt spreading across his tongue as something crunches under his teeth, the sound of delighted laughter and a heavy weight leaning against his knees._

_A steady presence at his side, someone’s fist bumping his shoulder, sharp teeth bared in a rueful grin as they walk in step without even trying._

_A comforting presence wrapping around him and settling into his very being, smiling lips pressed against his own, delicate fingers brushing against the marks under his eye, the color of a forest at dusk and the scent of home._

_“It’s okay,” Mutsuki says again, gently turning his small, trembling body until they’re chest to chest, and he straightens up, lifting Urie effortlessly. It makes him feel vulnerable, but it’s strangely good to feel so raw and open while knowing that there’s someone to keep him from falling apart completely. He curls into the embrace, his face tucked against Mutsuki’s shoulder while his tiny hands clutch at his shirt._

_He’s humming as he starts to walk, footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent ballroom, but the song is so sweet that it makes his lids feel heavy again, the fingers stroking the back of his head making it impossible to stay-_

-asleep.

With a start, Urie categorizes the situation; cool, clean sheets, a soft bed, a warm body beneath him with the smell of turpentine and canvas in the air. His bedroom, his own bed, with Mutsuki curled underneath his sprawling form.

Just a dream.

His eyes are wet, which is embarrassing, but he has his head pillowed on Mutsuki’s chest as the other runs his fingers through his hair, so at least the other can’t see him crying for all that he probably already realizes that he’s done so.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, voice sounding far rougher than he would like.

“It’s okay,” Mutsuki replies, rubbing his thumb at the spot behind his ear that makes his whole body go boneless. “You never complain when I wake you up with my nightmares.”

Neither of them sleep particularly well; it’s a miracle when they both manage to sleep through the whole night at the same time. Usually they can hush each other without waking up fully, but this must have been a bad one; Mutsuki is fully awake, his eyes soft with concern when Urie finally tilts his head up to chance a glance at his face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” There’s hesitance in his voice, but they both always offer. The demons that lurk just under the surface sometimes need to be verbalized in order to be banished, but this is a broken bone that never set correctly and healed wrong, the hurt flaring up unexpectedly before fading back into memory.

“No. It’s not something that can be helped.”

“Mm.” Fingers card his hair back off his forehead, and Mutsuki has to do a weird kind of wiggle as he bends down in order to press his lips against his forehead, but it’s undeniably cute and the contact is comforting, so he doesn’t complain. “Are you going to try and sleep more, or do you want to get up?”

It’s a good question, because part of him wants to move, to run until the turmoil fades back into the haze of his subconscious. But it’s so warm under the blankets, with Mutsuki curled around him like a protective shield, the hand not playing with his hair stroking comfortably between his shoulder blades.

“I want to stay here.”

Through the window, he can see the stars, barely glinting through the light pollution of such a busy city, but the moon is bright, casting everything into a familiar navy blue, just barely tinted purple with the first rays of the sun peeking over the horizon. Oddly enough, it makes him smile.


End file.
